Into the Fire
by IronSparrow99
Summary: The story starts like this: aliens attack New York. People get scared. They need heroes. This is where Taylor comes in - she's smart, she's tough, and all she wants to do is help people. Keep them safe from what they can't understand. But she's hiding a deep, dark secret and a past she'd rather forget. When it all comes into the light, will she be strong enough to survive?
1. Chapter 1

Hey **guys! So, I've been getting into the AoS fandom recently, and I thought I'd try my hand fic writing. For anyone else reading my other works: I am sorry, but I can't juggle more than one fandom at a time. I'll try to get around to updating, I really will, but I can't make any promises.**

 **Anyways - I'm really excited to write this, and I hope you enjoy reading it! Please let me know what you think!**

 **(P.S.: this is also on AO3, under the same name. It looks better over there.)**

* * *

The world was changing.

One year ago, we all thought we were safe – well, relatively so, anyway. After all, as long as Iron Man did his job, nothing else could hurt us, right?

Wrong. We were all _so_ wrong.

The Chitauri attack caught everyone by surprise. Suddenly, there was more at play than simply Earth itself – there were worlds, entire _universes_ out there that wanted a piece of us, and we were woefully unprepared in every way possible.

We could assemble all the teams we wanted, bring in all the heroes we could, and it would never be enough. As good as the Avengers were, they were only six people (or gods, or rage monsters) and they couldn't do anything without it all being international news.

The world needed its little heroes – the ones behind the scenes, the ones in the shadows, the ones that could save the world without anyone being any the wiser.

Most of those people belonged to the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division – SHIELD, for short. It was an organization of highly-trained, highly-dangerous people whose job it was to protect the world from the threats they couldn't see or understand.

I was one of those people. I was an Agent of SHIELD.

…well, okay. Not _really._ Not yet. Technically, I was an agent-in-training; at the moment, my only job was to read a law textbook.

It was harder than it looks, especially when all of the material went something like, _"The constitutional guarantee of due process of law, found in the Fifth and Fourteenth Amendments to the U.S. Constitution, prohibits all levels of government from arbitrarily or unfairly depriving individuals of their basic constitutional rights to life, liberty, and property…"_

I groan and drop my head onto the desk, squeezing my eyes shut as the words on the page swim in front of my eyes, only magnifying the throbbing headache that was pounding my brain like a meat tenderizer.

It was nice to know that no matter how crazy the world got, Constitutional Law would always – _always_ – be the most boring thing known to man.

I rub a hand over my face and flip the book shut, shoving it away and pulling out my earbuds, tossing my phone on my bed and standing up, stretching my back out as I did so.

 _It can't all be glamor,_ a sardonic little voice in my head whispers. _You knew what you were getting into._

"Shut up _,_ "I snap, plopping bonelessly onto my bed, the springs creaking as I pick at a loose thread.

" _Someone_ woke up on the wrong side of the bed," a voice jokes.

I look towards the source to see a man standing in my doorway, dressed in a generic suit and tie, with a face like an accountant that hid everything this man really was.

"Agent Coulson!" I greet cheerfully, pushing myself into an upright position. "What brings you to my humble abode? Please don't say I've got more assessments. I might kill someone."

"It's not yours, it's SHIELD's," Phil Coulson reminds me somberly, but there was a slight smile on his face that belied his tone. "And killing someone – agents especially – is highly frowned upon."

"But you haven't given me anything else to do," I point out. "Other than read that monstrosity over there, and honestly, sir, if I wanted to study law, I would've stayed in the corporate sector."

"It's part of the training, _Trainee_ ," he sighs, giving me a pointed glance as he leans against the desk. "And you-"

"Wanted this, I know," I grumble. "Did you want something, or were you just poking in to say hi?"

"Get your shoes on," Coulson orders, straightening his back. "The Director wants to see you."

I pause and snap my head up, unable to hide my shock. I'd been in SHIELD for months, known _of_ them for years, and I'd met the Director face-to-face maybe twice. He had better things to do than deal with low-level agents.

Or so I thought.

"The – the _Director_?" I ask, my voice coming out in an embarrassing squeak as I hop off the bed and grope around underneath it for my sneakers. "I, um – what does he want?"

"No idea," Coulson replies smoothly as I pull on my shoes and grab the gun resting on my bedside table. "Director Fury just requested you in his office. Didn't tell me why."

"Right," I drawl. "His 'one good eye', my ass." I roll my eyes and grab my jacket, shrugging it on as I step into the hallway.

Coulson quickly takes the lead, guiding me through the maze of corridors that made up the base.

"So…" I begin awkwardly, shoving my hands in my pockets as I glance at the bare walls, floors, and ceiling. "Where are we?"

"Same place we are last time you asked."

"And that is…?"

"Classified," Coulson deadpans, tossing a stern look over his shoulder.

I huff at him as we round a corner, stepping out of the way of two oncoming agents. "Still playing that game, hm? Okay, well, can you tell me if I'll ever get my computer back?"

"Taylor," he sighs.

" _Phil_ ," I mock. "C'mon, it's been _months_! I'm _bored_ ," I whine, speeding up to fall into step with the older agent.

"You know the protocol," he admonishes. "Restricted access the base so you can focus on learning the ropes."

"So I'm grounded," I surmise glumly.

"Well, I wouldn't put it like that, but…basically, yes," Coulson admits as he pushes open a door labeled 'Director's Office'. "Ladies first."

I take a deep breath and summon all my courage before stepping into Fury's very large, window-lit office.

The Director is seated behind his desk, looking like something out of _The Godfather_ , and to his right was Deputy Director Hill, looking as prim and proper as ever.

My heart sinks into my shoes as Coulson takes a seat opposite Fury, but I quickly mask the fear and take a few confident steps into the room.

"I'm in a room with the three most powerful people in SHIELD," I quip as I take the seat next to Coulson, facing Fury and Hill. "Should I be worried?"

"I don't know, Trainee," Fury fires back with a raised eyebrow. "Do you have anything to be worried about?"

I consider this for a moment before tilting my head. "Probably."

Fury nods, his single eye fixed on my face. His gaze was piercing – it felt like he could see my soul; every dark corner, every secret, every regret I'd ever had.

The feeling took some getting used to.

"I'm sure you're wondering why I've called you here," the Director continues, pushing his chair back and beginning to pace behind the desk, his coat swaying as he walks. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but you seem like the curious type."

"I guess so," I grumble, shifting in my seat, eyes tracking Fury's course. "That's probably not why you wanted to see me, though, sir."

"And sharp as usual," he adds. "As I'm sure you're aware, your family has a troubled past with SHIELD. You're either completely on our team, or you despise everything we stand for. There's no in-between."

I nibble at my lip as Fury keeps pacing, suddenly really unsure why I was here and a little terrified – not that I'd admit that.

"So I'm sure you can understand how, when Coulson came to me after New York and said he wanted to bring you in, I was hesitant," Fury explains. "I run a tight ship. I don't need someone like you barging in and fucking things up."

"Someone like me?" I interrupt, more than a little offended. "Sir?"

Fury turns around to glare at me. "Don't play games. You know _exactly_ what I mean. You're damn lucky I trust Coulson, or you would've never been allowed into _my_ base in the first place."

"Yes, sir," I mumble under my breath, shooting Coulson a grateful look.

"And I've found, over the past few months, that I wasn't exactly _wrong_ ," Fury explains, clasping his hands behind his back. "You're unpredictable. A loose cannon. Not to mention, stubborn as hell."

"Er…thank you?" I squeak, extremely confused. "Sir, if you're going to fire me, will you please just-"

"I'm not finished," he cuts in, glaring down at me before resuming his pacing. "You _are_ unpredictable, stubborn, and a loose cannon, that much is true; however, I think you could make a decent agent. Given a lot of time and effort, of course."

I stay silent, letting the Director's words sink in. I was ninety-nine percent sure that was as close to a genuine compliment as Nick Fury got.

"I've been keeping an eye on your evaluation results for a while now," Fury reveals after a moment. "And they definitely could have been worse."

"Your Weapon Proficiency results are nearly unmatched," Hill offers, flipping open a file in front of her. "Agent Michelson reports your hand-to-hand combat skills as 'decent, but could use a little polishing.' And you scored the highest results in Computer Sciences since Howard Stark took the test for _fun._ "

"Maybe it's genetic," I quip, every word dripping with sarcasm. "But that'd be _crazy_."

"However," Coulson continues, as though I hadn't spoken, "your undercover skills could use a little work, as could your general communication skills, but that's to be expected, given your circumstances."

I side-eye him for that but don't comment because he had a point.

"Not to mention, you haven't blown up my base," Fury adds. "Yet."

"I've been careful!" I object hotly. "I haven't even set anything on fire since I got here. That's a record!"

"Not true," Coulson argues. "The toaster, last week. Agent Brandt is still pissed."

"That wasn't my fault," I protest meekly. "Brandt is an ass…"

"And he is a superior agent," Hill admonishes sternly. "He has earned your respect, whether you like him or not."

"Are you done?" Fury snaps. "Can we get back on topic now? Or are we gonna keep gossiping like we're _five_?!"

The room is silenced quicker than I'd ever seen. Hill and Coulson lean back into their seats, the latter giving me a vaguely apologetic look.

"As I was _saying_ ," Fury continues forcefully, "you've been a decently good trainee, and you'd make a good agent if given the chance. But you're not going to find that chance here. You don't belong here."

My heart drops, and my stomach ties itself in knots. I just manage to choke out, "Sir?"

"…which is _why,"_ the Director continues, ignoring me, "I've got two things for you. One: a reassignment, effective immediately. And two...I'll let Coulson handle that."

I watch intently – although majorly confused – as Fury slips something out of his desk and hands it to his right-hand man, who then holds it out for me to take.

My breath catches as I realize what it is – a thin, black, leather wallet. "Is that…?"

"Find out for yourself," Coulson urges quietly.

I take the wallet with trembling hands, struggling to breathe around the lump in my throat as I flip it open. Inside was an ID card, on top; below that, a shining silver emblem of an eagle.

I was holding a badge. A _SHIELD_ badge.

It wasn't hard to figure out what it all meant, but it _was_ hard to hear anything over the sound of blood rushing in my ears.

Coulson's voice makes it through quite clearly, though.

"Welcome to Level 1, Agent Stark. Welcome to SHIELD."


	2. Chapter 2

**Sorry for the late update, guys - school has started up again and I've got a big workload, it being my senior year and all. I'll try to update sooner, but in the meantime, tell me what you think! I greatly enjoy reviews!**

* * *

I couldn't believe my ears. Or eyes, for that matter.

Normally, my brain was astonishingly quick on the uptake, but – this? _This?_ I couldn't put it together. Me? An _agent_ …of SHIELD?

My first thought was that this was a prank, and I tear my eyes away from the badge in my hand to glance at Coulson, whose face was impassive. But then again, it was always impassive, so that didn't mean much.

Hill wasn't even looking at me, she was reading a file on the desk – probably my file – and was intently focused on that. Fury's face showed no emotion, but I could feel his gaze on me.

The Director didn't strike me as the type to play jokes. Hill was possibly the most no-nonsense person I knew. Coulson would never play me this cruelly.

Which meant that this was real. The badge in my hands belonged to me. I was, officially, an agent of the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division.

I look up at Coulson and blink a few times, steadfastly ignoring the hot, prickly feeling threatening to spill over down my cheeks. "Are you sure you're not making a massive mistake?"

"I'm not," he assures me, dropping a hand on my shoulder. "You're a brilliant young woman, Taylor. You've passed every test set for you. You've worked hard for this, haven't you?"

I nod eagerly.

"Then you deserve this badge," Coulson asserts with a set to his jaw that left no room for argument. He claps me on the shoulder and steps back with a nod. "Enough with the heart-to-heart. We've got work to do."

I nod and flip my badge closed, slipping it into my jacket pocket and nodding at the other two people in the room. "Director, Agent Hill."

"Dismissed, agents," they chorus. Coulson nods and swipes a folder off the desk, leading the way out of the room.

I quickly follow after him, only making a few feet down the hallway before I remember something else Fury had said.

"What about my reassignment?" I ask Coulson as we fall into step. "Fury said something about a reassignment. Where am I headed?"

The older man simply flips open the folder in his hands and replies, "You're with me."

For the second time that day, Phil Coulson stopped me in my tracks, but my brain catches up faster this time.

"Wait, what do you mean, _with you_? Where are _you_?" I ask curiously.

"I'm assembling a team. A team of people to do the things that-"

"Humanity can't?" I guess wryly. "What is it with you and assembling things? Is it something you're particularly good at? Should I take you to IKEA one of these days?"

"Cheeky," Coulson mutters as we continue walking, getting closer to the bunks. "This isn't like before. I'm bringing together a specialized team of agents – the best of the best, brought together to solve problems with a certain level of autonomy. We make the calls, we take the missions, we function on the edge of SHIELD. I'd be the commander of the team, as well as your personal S.O." he shrugs. "You in?"

"I don't think I have a choice," I respond dryly as we approach my bunk. "But either way, I'm in."

Coulson nods again, and I barely have time to catch the smallest hint of a smile before we reach my bunk and he steps back to let me in.

It doesn't take very long for me to pack my meager belongings into a duffel bag, and the blueprints I'd been given permission to draw get rolled up and stuffed into a backpack.

According to Coulson, most of the projects I'd been working on before SHIELD had already been transported to the new base, so there wasn't much else to pack; I give the sad little room one last glance before shutting the door for the last time.

Coulson then whisks me off to the vehicle bay, where a nondescript SUV was waiting to bring the two of us to where we needed to go.

The ride was mostly silent; I end up plugging in my headphones and entertaining myself with one of the games I had on my phone. Soon enough, however, the car stops and the driver – an unidentified agent – announces that we've reached our destination.

I shut my phone off and grab my bags as I climb out of the car, hitching my backpack higher as I take a look around.

I still couldn't tell where we were, but the signage was in English. I was standing on an airfield, that much was sure. The place was abuzz with activity: people in flight suits rushing around, SHIELD cars darting back and forth, various voices shouting to be heard over the distant roar of jet engines.

Most of my attention, however, was immediately drawn to the massive super-plane sitting in the hangar.

"What is _that_?" I whisper, awe-struck, after picking my jaw up off the pavement.

"That," Coulson says from behind me, "is our new base. Come on." My S.O. starts heading for the massive plane, leaving me to scurry after him or be left behind.

Moments later, I walk up the ramp and into the cargo bay, eyes stretched wide as I try to take in everything I was seeing. "I've never seen a plane like this."

"I wouldn't think so, as this one's been modified to fit SHIELD purposes," Coulson explains. "Originally, it was a military transport, but SHIELD's repurposed it quite a bit – we used to have a whole fleet, back in the 90s, but then we got a Hellicarrier, so they were sent into retirement."

"And now you have one? Just…a whole plane? To yourself?"

"Well, Fury never did pay me back for ruining my trading cards," Coulson quips, and I bite back a grimace at the reminder. "Consider this a compensation. I think we've got time for a tour if you want one."

I nod vigorously, and Coulson smirks before leading me up a spiral staircase and into the body of the plane.

I quickly discover that describing the plane as "modified a bit" was a massive understatement – the main area boasted a full living room and bar. Separated from the rest of the room by a glass partition was what I assumed to be the debriefing area, with an electronic table and a giant monitor mounted on one wall. Just in front of the main room was a kitchenette; in front of that, the cockpit and pilot quarters.

Just behind the main area, there was a short hallway leading to the interrogation room, and another leading to the machinery area, which Coulson had to literally drag me away from.

"You'll get to see that later," he announces, leading me back through the plane. "After you get a bunk, I need to leave to get my car. Fitzsimmons should be in, you can head down to the lab to meet-and-greet."

"Fitzsimmons?" I question.

"Well, technically it's Fitz _and_ Simmons, two people. You'll be working with them a lot – the three of you are our entire science and technology division," Coulson explains, stopping at a door. "This is the bunk room. I've really got to go, so I trust you'll be okay on your own."

"I'm not _three_ ," I complain, rolling my eyes. "I'll be fine, sir."

With that, Coulson leaves me alone, and I can hear his footsteps fade before I open the door in front of me.

The bunk room sported six individual bunk cubicles, three on either side of a narrow walkway. The two closest to the door were already taken, and the one in the far-right corner looked like it was being used for storage.

It doesn't take me long to choose the bunk in the back left, quickly dropping my duffel on the bed and grabbing the map and safety pamphlet off the little side table, stuffing the latter into my backpack and using the former to find the lab.

It turns out that the 'lab' wasn't really a full-sized laboratory, the likes of which I'd worked on before. This was more of a small-ish room that had been gutted, cleaned, and furnished with a bunch of lab tables; then again, it had an actual holotable, so who was I to complain?

As the pneumatic doors hiss open, I duck just in time to miss something flying at my head. "What the-" I trail off upon looking up and spotting the drone. It was a tiny little thing, sporting four propeller engines and what might've been a camera of some sort.

"Oh, hello," I grin, straightening up to get a better look at it. "Who are you?"

"That's Sneezy," a Scottish baritone speaks up from behind me.

I jump and whirl around to face the source – a man, maybe only a little older than me, with a head of light brown curls and light blue eyes.

"Ah, sorry. I don't normally talk to machines, I _swear_ , it's just – I'm not-" I cut myself off, feeling the heat rise up my cheeks before I finally blurt out, "Are you Fitz or Simmons?"

"Fitz," he answers easily, setting the device he was holding down to extend a hand. "Agent Leo Fitz, but just call me Fitz. You are…?"

"Agent Taylor Stark, please call me Taylor." I grin and shake his hand. "Coulson told me you were one-third of the science division?"

"Oh, yeah, I'm engineering," Fitz explains. "Simmons is Biochem. You?"

"Also engineering. But if you're here, I'm probably being brought on as computer sciences," I speculate. "So the drone – Sneezy – he's yours?"

"Yeah," he nods eagerly, picking up the device he'd been holding – it looked like a tablet of some sort – and tapped a few things, making Sneezy fly back towards us and land on the table. "He's a beauty. Part of a set, actually. Eight of them."

I reach out towards the drone before pausing and glancing at Fitz. "May I?" He nods, and I brush a hand over Sneezy's joints, gently testing his weight in my hands. "It's so light, how did you manage that? It's amazing work. I've never seen anything like it before – save for my own work, course."

Fitz opens up his mouth to reply, but a new voice – this one British – interrupts. "Fitz, where did you put my – oh, hello!"

I look up to see a girl – brunette, brownish-hazel eyes, dressed in a lab coat with safety goggles hanging around her neck.

"Are you Simmons?" I ask, straightening up and extending a hand. "I've heard about you…and I've only been on the plane for ten minutes," I tease, glancing at Fitz, whose cheeks turn red, out of the corner of my eye.

The girl – probably Simmons – laughs, shaking my hand and nodding. "Yes, well, Fitz was probably exaggerating. I am Simmons, though – Agent Jemma Simmons, biochemistry."

"Agent Taylor Stark," I return. "Engineering and computer sciences."

"Oh, yes, Stark!" I wince as recognition flares in Simmons' eyes. "Of course. _Of course_ , you're engineering, you're from a family of some of the most brilliant engineers the world has ever seen! I remember hearing about Howard Stark-"

I cut her off. "Please, call me Taylor."

Simmons blinks, slightly confused, but quickly recovers, giving me a bright smile. "Jemma. Or Simmons, I really don't care. I think your gear is over there," she continues, pointing over to the back corner of the lab, where a number of metal crates were stacked.

I nod and walk over to one of the crates, finding a specialized barcode and scanning it with my phone. A record pops up on the screen, displaying the contents and the date it was entered into the system.

"What is that?" Fitz asks curiously.

"A digital archive," I explain as I continue scanning and moving the boxes. "I've got a lot of projects and I've learned to be careful with them. In the wrong hands, these are…dangerous, to say the least."

"What kind of things do you usually work on?" Simmons questions, coming up to my side as I continue unpacking.

"Odds and ends," I shrug, pulling out a smaller case, scanning it, and flipping it open to reveal a mean-looking rifle. "Mainly weapons. But I'm also working on hoverboard technology."

Simmons nods, and she, Fitz, and I chat for a moment more before getting back to work. I finish cataloging my projects and start wiring in my main laptop, which involved crawling under the desk to lead the wires where I wanted them to go.

About half an hour later, the lab doors hiss open again, followed by a soft _thud_ and a tired voice asking, "Fitzsimmons?"

Fitz and Simmons introduce each other while I slide out from under the table to get my first look at the new person.

It's a guy – probably an agent – with dark hair and eyes, introducing himself as Grant Ward, Level 7 Agent. He's ridiculously tall, with well-defined muscles. He's also dressed in a full suit and tie, which I found really odd.

I clamber to my feet, and Ward turns his head to look at me. "Woah, who's the kid?"

"Agent Taylor Stark. And I'm not a kid!" I object, crossing my arms. "Did you need something, Agent Ward?"

"Ah, yeah." He fishes something out of his pocket and puts it on the table. "Coulson sent me, said I needed my comm reset-"

I ignore the rest of his sentence, snatching the comm unit up and turning it over in my hands. "This is a piece of shit," I huff, dropping it to the floor and crushing it under my heel. "We'll have a new one done by the end of the day."

"Sure, kid," Ward replies dubiously.

"I'm not-" I'm interrupted by the doors swishing open once more, a familiar suit entering the lab, closely followed by an unfamiliar agent. "Coulson! Tell _James Bond_ here that I'm not a _kid_."

"Technically, you are," my S.O. points out, unhelpfully. "You're not legally eighteen, and therefore a minor."

"I'm close enough!" I insist. "Seventeen is close enough!"

"Whatever you say, _kid_ ," Ward sighs with an eye-roll.

I mutter some uncomplimentary words under my breath and lean back against one of the lab tables, turning to look at the unfamiliar agent – an Asian woman dressed in navy blue and black. "Not to be rude, but who are you?"

"Agent Melinda May," she says simply before falling silent again. Her voice was stoic and monotone, and I was quickly getting the sense that she didn't use it often.

"She flies the plane," Coulson offers. "I see you've all met, then?"

An uncoordinated chorus of 'yes sir's comes from Ward, Fitz, Simmons, and I.

"Good. Now that we're through with introductions, we've got work to do."


	3. Chapter 3

"The Rising Tide."

Coulson taps a button on his tablet and several pieces of information pop up on the command center monitor all at once – logos, rosters, online posts, pictures, and even one of two windows of code that I instantly wanted to get my hands on.

"Their main goal is to expose the superhuman world to the rest of the world," Coulson explains, "and they do this by releasing information that shouldn't be released. They function under two beliefs: one, information should be free; two, organizations like us have no right to deny the public information."

"Are they terrorists, sir?" Ward asks. "Targets?"

"Ward, _no_ ," the team leader sighs, not sounding surprised that the other agent had jumped straight to the worst conclusion. "They're only a…vigilante group, for lack of a better term. They've been on the scene since the mess with Stark in '08-"

I resolutely keep a straight face and ignore everyone's eyes on me, staring dead ahead at Coulson.

"-but they haven't warranted anything more than low-level monitoring. Until now."

"What changed?" I ask, narrowing my eyes at the logo – a fairly simple design of cresting waves. "They sound like small fries."

"And if they've been around for four and a half years, why are we just getting to them now?" Fitz adds.

"Two reasons," Coulson replies. "One: New York. Two: this." He swipes a finger across his tablet, and a video pops up on the monitor – it's a news report with the headline reading "The Hooded Hero."

I watch the building explode, the mysterious man climb up the brick wall _with his bare hands_ , and then jump down a few minutes later without a scratch.

Okay. Well, the Rising Tide – if they had anything to do with this – were definitely _not_ small fries anymore.

"Are you _sure_ they aren't terrorists?" Ward asks suspiciously, watching the burning remains of the building. "That looked like a terrorist attack to me."

"Activists usually don't cause damage like this," Simmons offers timidly.

"There's a fine line between 'activist' and 'terrorist,'" May points out bluntly. "It all depends on body count."

"We don't know what they are yet," Coulson interjects, getting us back on track. "We don't know who they are, or if they've got anything to do with that building. But finding that man before somebody else does is our top priority. Understood?"

Everyone around the table nods, and Coulson continues.

"However, we don't know who he is. Facial recognition won't work-"

"Because of the hood," I realize, glancing at the footage.

"-right. So, the only way we can track him down is to track down the Rising Tide, who are probably looking for him as we speak. Taylor, I want you to comb through every piece of code you can find concerning the Rising Tide. See if you can tell where – or who – this video came from. Fitzsimmons, start looking into our mystery man – I want to know what he's got, and how to take him down if we need to."

"Yes, sir," the two scientists chorus.

"Ward, find out as much as you can about the building pre-explosion. May-"

"I'll finish up pre-flight checks. We'll be air ready in five."

Coulson nods at May – I was getting the vibe that she was just below the lead agent himself on the totem pole here – and then faces the rest of us. "Everyone clear?"

"Clear, sir," I respond, echoed by a few other voices.

Coulson quickly dismisses us, and we all scatter to start on our assigned tasks. I follow Fitz and Simmons back down to the lab, where I immediately start getting my computer banks up and running.

"This all sounds exciting," Simmons says from the holotable, where she'd pulled up a model of the hooded guy to examine and dissect. "The adventure, the fast-pace, the opportunity…"

"The explosions," I quip over my shoulder. "The fact that we could get killed."

"Don't be such a cynic," she admonishes. "You're a scientist. Think of all of the discoveries you could make!"

"I guess," I roll my eyes. "But it's only our first case. We've still gotta get use to the routine, the cases, the team…"

"Speaking of the team," Fitz speaks up from his desk, where he was fiddling with a rifle-looking device of some sort, "that Ward guy seems like a piece of work."

"That's one way to put it," I scoff. "He went straight from nothing to terrorist in no time flat. Talk about jumping to conclusions."

"Yeah," Simmons sighs, flicking a part of the hologram in front of her away. "I've always hated people like that."

"What, machoistic, self-centered, all-American jock types?" I ask sarcastically. "Although, I guess it'd be James Bond-types, because, y'know – spies."

Both scientists nod, and Fitz comments, "I've never worked with Ward personally, but he's practically legend within the Operations branch of the Academy – rumor has it, he could go up against Romanoff and _win_."

My eyebrows practically disappeared into my hairline – I'd met Agent Romanoff (actually "Natalie Rushman") about two years ago, and I seriously doubted that _anyone_ could match her in a fight.

But all I do is shrug. "Good for him. He's still not my favorite, though." I turn back to my monitors, opening up a new monitor and beginning to worm my way into the Rising Tide's systems. "So, about this Mystery Hero – what do you think is his…y'know, thing?" I gesture with a vague hand motion towards Simmons' hologram.

"I'm not quite sure yet," she admits, not looking away from her work. "From what I can see, his face and hands are physically normal, but I can't see the rest of his body to know if it's all human or not."

"It might be a serum of some sort," Fitz suggests. "That's always a hit, after what Erskine did."

"None of the copycats have been successful," I point out, briefly glancing over my shoulder. "All of them ended in disaster. Banner, Blonsky, Sterns – countless others. I've seen the Hulk. Not fun, would not recommend."

"He's probably dangerous," Simmons mutters. "I'll start compiling a list of serum rejects, then, to see if I can narrow anything down. Thanks, Taylor."

"No problem, Jemma," I respond absently, refocusing on my computer and swearing as I hit another firewall. "For a group of amateurs, these guys are painfully good at keeping unwanted visitors out."

"Coulson didn't say they were amateur hackers, just amateur terrorists," Fitz reminds me. "You're probably better though, Stark."

I roll my eyes and push a breath through my teeth. With that thought in mind, I turn back to the computer, cracking my knuckles as I did so. Fitz was right, these guys were good – but I was better.

I would _always_ be better.

With that thought secured in the forefront of my mind, I dive back into the coding and start hammering away.

.

About an hour later, my back muscles were tied into knots, my eyes were burning, and the code had begun to swim before my eyes, but I'd also found a very well hidden crack in the inner-most firewall and weaseled my way into the Rising Tide's main system.

I push my chair back and springing out of the chair, bouncing around in an uncoordinated victory danced that came to an abrupt halt when I stepped on my own untied shoelaces, saving myself from a faceplant by grabbing the edge of the counter at the last minute.

"Are you okay?" Simmons asks from where she was still looking through the list of failed serum experiments, dissecting each attempt into chemicals I couldn't hope to pronounce. Her tone was innocent, but I could hear the undercurrent of amusement.

"Yeah, I'm good," I assure her, quickly glancing over at Fitz, who had unfortunately seen everything and was smirking at me. "What?"

"Nothing," he chuckles, turning back to what he was working on – I had learned that it was known as the Night-Night Gun, and it sorely needed a name change.

"Actually, I'm _better_ than good," I amend, turning back to my computer. "I just wormed my way into the Rising Tide – and it looks like the main hub, too. Did Coulson say to look for anything specific?"

"Nah, just a lead," Fitz replies absently, coming over to peer over my shoulder. "But if you're in the nerve center, you should be able to dig up some major stuff. Is that a blog?"

I glance over, dragging a few windows out of the way to reveal the one Fitz had been pointing at. "It _is_ a blog, would you look at that."

I grin as I scroll through the posts, setting up SHIELD's translating software to make sense of the ones that were in foreign languages. I caught glimpse of writing in Chinese, French, German, and even a few in Hebrew – the Rising Tide was by no means a _small_ organization.

After about half an hour of scrolling, I realize a pattern: a lot of the most vocal posts, the ones designed to persuade people to follow their cause, were all written under one username: _the-sky3s-th3-limit._

This person – whomever he or she was – sounded like a leader, like they were completely and totally dedicated to whatever the Rising Tide put out, as crazy and outlandish as it may be.

"Sounds like someone drank too much of the purple Kool-Aid," I mutter to myself as I enter the web address that would take me to the blogger's main page. From there, I slipped back into the code and quickly pinned the blogger handle to a computer, which I then lifted the IP address from.

"And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you do it," I crow, leaning back in my chair and spinning around.

"Did you get through?" Fitz and Simmons – both of them, simultaneously – ask from the holotable.

"You bet I did. We'll have a location in…" I pull up a tracking software, calibrate it, and then set it to run. "Ten minutes. I'm gonna go tell Coulson, be right back."

I hop out of my chair and stretch my arms and legs, making sure my shoelaces were securely tied this time before bounding out of the labs and up the stairs that led to the main cabin.

Ward was sitting on one of the couches with a book, and I cautiously approach. "Hey, Agent Ward."

"Just Ward," he requests, looking up. "Hey, Stark. Did you get anything on the… _activist_ group?"

"Call me Taylor. And yeah, I did. Is Coulson in his office?" I ask, glancing at the stairs.

"Yeah, he disappeared up there about an hour and a half ago. I think he's just doing paperwork or something like that – I dunno, it's not my job."

I roll my eyes at that but shuffle backwards, nodding at the other agent. "Thanks, Ward."

"No problem, kid."

"Don't call me-" I cut myself off and shake my head, leaving Ward to his book and jogging up the stairs.

I rap my knuckles on the door to Coulson's office a few times before his voice calls, "Come in," and I slide the door open. "Got a second, sir?"

"I'm not working on anything important," he tells me, waving me in. "What is it?"

"I got into the Rising Tide servers," I report. "I managed to track down the IP address of what looks like a leader of some sort. Reminds me of an evangelist – only, she seems like a decent hacker, too."

"Decent?" Coulson questions, raising an eyebrow. "How _decent_?"

"Erm…" I shuffle my feet and bite at my lip, glancing down at my sneakers before looking back up. "It took me around an hour to get into their system, sir, and it wasn't easy. Whoever's running that place, they know their way around a computer on a level that I've barely seen before."

Coulson leans back in his chair, a pensive look on his face, coupled with an expression that otherwise revealed no emotion.

"We'll just have to work harder to bring them in, then," he announces after a minute or so of silence. "Do you-" He's interrupted by my cell phone beeping, and he gives me a pointed look.

"Sorry," I mutter, fishing the device out of my pocket and glancing at the screen. "Location results for the IP address are in."

"And?"

"And…" I open up the results and study them for a second before frowning at my screen. "Hm."

"That doesn't sound good," Coulson speculates. "Why doesn't it sound good, Taylor?"

"Because it's not," I reply before realizing what I'd said and looking up, quickly backpedaling. "I mean, it's not _bad!_ But it's not exactly what I'd been hoping for, sir."

Coulson fixes me with a piercing gaze. "Can you send it to the command center?" When I nod, he continues. "Do that. I'll get the team."

I nod again before slipping out of the office and down the stairs, arriving in the glass-enclosed command center just in time to see the rest of the team converge around the monitor.

"Coulson said you had something?" May asks by way of greeting as I approach the table.

I nod and pull the results up onto the touch-screen table, and then flick it onto the monitor.

"What've you got?" Coulson asks, coming down from his office and taking up a position just to the side of the monitor.

I take a deep breath and begin to explain my findings, describing the well-defended Rising Tide servers and the posts I'd found on the blog.

"If you look at these posts…" I explain, pulling up _the-sky3s-th3-limit_ 's main page. "You can see that whoever this is, he or she is important."

"Probably a leader of some sort," Ward speculates. "Or at least a main part. If they speaks, people listen."

"And if she falls, the Rising Tide could crumble," Coulson adds. "I don't see a problem here, Taylor."

"The problem is here." I point at the result screen. "I've managed to track our hacker to eastern LA, but I can't get an exact location, only a radius of about five miles."

"They must have protected their location somehow," Fitz realizes. "That IP address could be anywhere within that area."

"If it's even there at all," Ward interjects. "They could be lying."

"We have to believe they're not," Coulson argues. "This is the only solid lead we've had in months, and we're going to follow it."

"If we can find it," Simmons interrupts hesitantly. "Currently, we can't link the IP address with a physical location."

"Is there a way?"

I glance over, meeting Fitz's eyes. The other engineer nods, and I give him a small nod before turning back to Coulson. "We'll find one."

"Good," he nods. "Do it quickly. The sooner we find our hacker, the sooner we find out who our mystery hero is."

I nod and take a step back, recognizing a dismissal when I heard one. I edge my way out of the room, crossing the lounge and jogging down the stairs, Fitz and Simmons on my tail.

We had work to do.

We had a hacker to catch.


	4. Chapter 4

**Hey, guys - here's the latest chapter. I wanted to get this out ASAP, as I'm right in Hurricane Irma's path right now, and she's going to start hitting me tomorrow. I'm not sure how long it will take for the next chapter to get out, because I will more than likely lose power - and therefore internet - over the next few days. Bear with me, guys.**

 **My thoughts are with everyone else in Irma's path, as well as the victims in Cuba, the Caribbean, and Mexico. Stay safe out there, people.**

* * *

Once we re-entered the lab, Fitz and I immediately got to work, brainstorming and sketching our hastily-drawn blueprints for a device that would be able to track down the hacker's computer. Simmons was over at the monitor, doubling down in her effort to cross-examine the serum rejects with our Mystery Hero.

Working with other people in the room was a new experience. Normally, it was just me, my music, my project and – up until about a year ago – my dad. I didn't really like input from other people; not because I didn't appreciate their talent or ideas, but because this was my project and I had a very specific image in my head that needed to be followed down to the letter.

Despite this, I found that working with Fitz and Simmons – but Fitz especially – wasn't bad. It was a little odd, maybe, as the two seemed mentally linked, but I found it to be comforting at the same time. The other engineer worked with confidence and the sort of quiet assurance that only came from being really good at what you did. He could've held his doctorate over my head, as I'd seen so many scientists do before, but he didn't – once we began working, Fitz fully accepted that our skills were on par with one another.

We worked quickly and efficiently, mashing together scraps, spare parts, and half-finished concepts into a device that would be able to match the IP address with a physical location. And after about an hour of work, a finished product was born: a drone – nicknamed "Sniffer" – about the size of Fitz's hand that looked like a cross between a large insect and a small drone, with the ability to fly using a few small propellers.

It wasn't pretty, but it worked.

After running a few tests with my laptop in the cargo bay, a quick call brings Coulson down to the lab.

I look up as the doors hiss open, allowing my S.O. into the room. "You said you had something?"

"Yeah, over here." I grab Sniffer from the table behind me, placing the drone on the table between Coulson and I. "Ta-da."

"It works?" Coulson asks, eyeing the drone curiously.

"Of course it works," I scoff, rolling my eyes. I stand on my tiptoes, leaning to look over Coulson's shoulder. "Ready, Fitz?"

"Ready!" he calls from the cargo bay, where he was waiting with a spare laptop. "Starting it now."

A quiet hum fills the lab as Sniffer lights up and lifts off the table, zipping around Coulson and darting through the lab doors, dissolving into a flash of silver.

After a few minutes, there's a shuffling sound from the cargo bay and Fitz appears, grinning as he holds Sniffer with one hand and a laptop in the other. "She's a beauty."

"He," I correct, turning and walking over to my laptop. "Sniffer's a boy."

"Uh, no, I think _she's_ a girl," he argues. "I mean, that much is obvious."

"I don't really see how-"

"Oh, not this again," a voice sighs, and I look to see Simmons walk into the lab. "Are you two arguing about the drone's gender again? It doesn't really matter, you know. The drone isn't sentient, it does not care. It's ridiculous."

"Yes, _mom_ ," I quip before returning to the task at hand. I grab a second device, unplugging it from my laptop and walking back over to the team leader. "Here's the remote. It wirelessly communicates with the drone – you put the IP address in here, it goes to the drone. This also controls speed, and it's got a kill switch that kills everything in the system in a fraction of a second. You shouldn't need it," I hurriedly explain at the concerned look on Coulson's face. "I'm not counting on you needing it, but just in case something goes wrong…"

"It shouldn't go wrong," Coulson assures me. "You know what you're doing, don't you?"

I open my mouth, only to close it again – I knew a loaded question when I heard one. "Um. I do, sir."

"Good. Then I won't need the kill switch," he announces, turning around. "Come on, team debriefing in five."

He leaves, and the doors his close behind him. I shake my head and begin shutting down my equipment, quickly closing everything up before leaving the lab, heading upstairs for the second team meeting in as many hours.

Coulson waits for all five of us to gather around the table before he starts speaking.

"We're ready to move on the Rising Tide and our mystery hero," he reveals. "I will be leading the effort to track down our hacker. Ward, you're with me. May, take Taylor and Fitzsimmons to the blast site – dig up anything you can get your hands on. I want to know exactly how that building exploded," the lead agent demands.

"Wait," I protest. "Shouldn't I be with you? I mean, our hacker my respond better to me. We could have a little hacker-to-hacker chat. And you're using my tech."

"We aren't going to _chat_ with the target," Ward says, giving me a derisive look. "This isn't a tea party, Stark. We're going in to _eliminate a threat._ "

"Ward is right," Coulson agrees. "Although we aren't crossing anyone off, we aren't going to invite them in with open arms, either. You're going with May, Stark."

I press my lips into a thin line. "But, sir-"

"I'll call you if there are any problems with the tech," he cuts me off. "That's final."

I hold his gaze for another moment before stepping back and nodding. "Yes, sir."

"I want to know who was involved, why they were there, and who caused the explosion," Coulson continues. "I want everything there is to know about that building."

"Yes, sir!" Fitz and Simmons chorus, and I nod again. Coulson dismisses us, walking away with Ward and Sniffer. Fitz, Simmons, and I then turn to May for direction.

"The plane will be landing in a few minutes. Be ready in ten," she dictates sharply before turning on her heel and walking away.

As soon as she was out of earshot, I let out a relieved breath. "I can never tell if she's mad at me or not. Is she always like this?"

"I have no idea," Simmons admitted. "She's from Administration. We should do as she says, though – I'd hate to find out what would happen if we don't."

I nod enthusiastically, but pause. "Um, I hate to ask, but can you guys pack up the equipment? I'd help, but I need to go change."

"Sure thing," Simmons agrees, bidding me goodbye as she leaves for the lab and I for my bunk.

I let myself into the bunkroom and slide my bunk open, unzipping the duffel bag I'd dropped on it a few hours earlier and pulling out my collection of gun and knives, followed by a bundle of dark clothing.

It doesn't take me very long to change from my casual clothes into tac gear – not the full set, as I wasn't putting my headgear on and my bulletproof vest was a lighter version – and switch my sneakers for boots, making sure they were tightly laced.

I then clip on my belt and slide a gun into each of my thigh holsters and my right boot, and a knife into my other boot and slipped into the holster on my lower back.

After stuffing extra ammo into my pockets and clipping on a flashlight, I zip up the bag and leave my bunk, sliding the door closed behind me.

Just as I leave the bunk room, the intercom system crackles to life.

" _We're beginning our descent into LA now. Be ready and waiting in the cargo bay; we need to head out immediately."_

I pick up my pace through the plane, bounding through the lounge and down the stairs. I step into the cargo bay to find Fitz and Simmons loading the last of the equipment into the SUV. "Everything ready to go?"

"Yeah, it's all loaded. Except for your laptop…I wasn't sure if you wanted it with you or with the gear," Simmons explains. "Plus, I didn't want it to explode in my hands or anything, so I thought it better to leave it alone."

"It's not going to explode," I assure her, picking up the bag and slinging it over my shoulder. "Where's May?"

As if on cue, the telltale sound of heels clacking comes from above me, and May appears at the bottom of the stairs.

"Is everything packed?"

"It is now," Fitz replies, slamming the trunk shut. "We're ready when you are." He turns around, only to see May having already lowered the ramp and climbed into the driver's seat.

I scramble into the passenger seat while the two other scientists cram into the back seat, and soon enough we're on the road and headed to the blast site.

"This is so exciting!" Simmons gushes. "Our first time in the field, Fitz! We get to see the sights, smell the insoluble nitrocellulose…"

I just roll my eyes, having heard this all before, but May glares at the rearview mirror. "Agent Simmons, this is not a field trip. You and Fitz will stay within the sight of field-trained agent _at all times_."

Simmons visibly deflates, and my heart twists for this girl that I've known for less than three hours. I twist in my seat so that I'm facing the backseat and quip, "Don't worry, apparently Ward and Coulson aren't at a tea party either. Maybe those are only Level 9 things, I don't know, I would've like to see Ward in a tutu, wouldn't you?"

That mental image draws a giggle out of Simmons, while Fitz grimaces but doesn't complain. I settle back in my seat, ignoring the look May was giving me.

The rest of the drive is silent, but before long, we were pulling up outside the bombed-out building. Climbing out of the car, I noticed a suspicious lack of police officers – with it being broad daylight in the middle of Los Angeles, I would've expected at least a _little_ activity.

As we enter the building, I voice these thoughts to May, who glances around before cryptically replying, "Coulson warned them off. The less attention this gets, the better," and walking off.

I just shrug to myself and make my way into the heart of the building. The space was burned beyond recognition; whatever it might've been before the blast, it was now a shell, littered with twisted scraps of metal and plastic, as well as what I thought was a body burnt to a crisp.

"Well," I muse, flicking on my flashlight and moving it around the room, "whoever wanted this place blown up, they definitely got their wish."

"And then some," Simmons adds. "There's hardly any viable evidence here – it's all just carbon!"

"Find something to work with," May orders from across the room.

I just silently grab one of the cases from the trunk and flip it open, gently taking out a tablet and tapping a few buttons to make a blue light start scanning the wall in front of me.

"Commencing a 3-D scan now…we should have a model in just a few minutes."

"I'm not sure what it'll show," Simmons comments from where she was collecting samples from the crispy skeleton-thing. "From what I can tell, some of these things look…well, not of this world." As if to prove her point, she uses her forceps to pick up a metallic scrap that didn't look like any metals I'd ever seen.

"It had better not be aliens again," I groan, shuffling so that I can get a better view of a piece of rebar sticking out of the metal. I quickly snap a photo so I can assess the structural integrity of the building once we get back to the Bus. "I swear, if it's aliens again, I will scream."

"It doesn't look like aliens," May offers, stepping gingerly over a twisted heap of metal. "I know bombs. This looks like a bomb."

"Maybe it's an al-"

"If the next words out of your mouth are 'alien bomb', Fitz, I will shoot you," I growl, the threat interrupted by my tablet beeping to let me know that the scan was done. I quickly send the results back to the main server and pack the tablet.

Just as I was flipping the latch on the case closed, a crash resonates through the building. I drop everything a whirl around, already grabbing my gun out of its holster as I race towards the source of the commotion.

I skid around a corner, raising my gun and preparing to shoot at…Simmons?

 _Simmons_ , my brain confirms as I slowly lower my gun. "You're really damn lucky I look before shooting, Jemma."

"Sorry," she winces, picking herself up from the rubble of what looked like a shelf – it must've tipped over. "I didn't mean to cause any alarm. Everything's alright, I promise."

I just sigh and press my comms. "Everything's clear. I repeat, everything is clear. Just Jemma being a klutz."

" _Copy that, Stark_ ," May responds curtly. _"Keep an eye out, just in case."_

"Yes, ma'am." I click off comms and refocus on the scientist in front of me. "What were you doing, anyway?"

"I think this was a lab," she reveals. "Doesn't this look like a storage room? I mean, if you squint…"

I tilt my head and glance around the room – everything was warped by the heat and pressure of the blast, but I could easily see the metal shapes near the walls being shelving units, and the there was a toppled-over table in the middle of the room.

"I guess," I shrug. "Come on, let's go see if May and Fitz have anything to support that hypothesis." I turn and head back to the main room, Simmons on my heels as we make it back to the main area and find that Fitz had deployed the drones – or DWARFs, as he had told me, which stood for Drones Wirelessly Automated to Retrieve Forensics.

Simmons quickly explains her theory to the rest of the room, and Fitz suddenly looks eager while May frowns.

"It wasn't leased as a lab," she points out. "If it was a lab, the people that built it wanted it kept under wraps."

"A secret lab," Fitz surmises eagerly. "And a _superhero_."

"How _original_ ," I draw, climbing on top of a particularly large piece of rubble and shining my flashlight down. "Fitz, can you send a drone over? I need light and a scan of whatever this is."

Fitz calls out an affirmative and there's a buzzing sound behind me as one of the drones – marked Bashful – comes over my shoulder and positions itself just where I was pointing.

"It's registering on the radar," Fitz exclaims behind me, hurrying to my side to peer down at whatever it was. "See? There, eleven o'clock, low."

I step carefully off the piece of rubble we were standing on, using chunks of concrete like giant stepping stones until I can get a better view of what Fitz had singled out.

Once I'm situated, I squint and lean forward as far as I dare. "I think…that shape seems familiar." I move my flashlight over the object and then look up at Fitz. "Gloves?"

He throws a pair down, and I slip them on before reaching for the object in question – a burnt, slightly warped piece of metal and plastic that reminded me of a security camera. Upon further inspection, I realize that it _was_ a security camera, and I hold it up for Fitz to see.

"You think we can get anything off this?"

"Worth a try." He holds open an evidence bag for me, and I drop the camera in before climbing back up and dusting myself off.

"Coulson just called," May reports, approaching us. "They've found the hacker. We should head back."

Simmons begins to protest. "But the evidence…"

"We can send another team out if we need to," May interjects. "Right now, our top priority is finding the hooded man from the video. And for that, we need to get back to the Bus and find out what this hacker knows."

I nod and climb down from the rubble, grabbing two of the equipment cases and lugging them towards the car.

It doesn't take the four of us to get all of the equipment and collected evidence into the SUV, climb into the car ourselves, and take the short route back to the airfield, where the Bus was waiting.

May pulls the car up the ramp, into the cargo bay, and puts it in park, getting out to help unload the trunk. I follow her out and I do help put the equipment back into the lab, but as soon as May gives her nod of approval, I take off through the plane, finding the interrogation room with only slight trouble.

I nearly run into Coulson as he exits the room. "Sir!"

"Hi, Taylor," Coulson gives me pleased look – his version of a smile. "Aren't you supposed to be unloading the car."

"May let me go," I offer, shifting my feet as I glance between Coulson and the interrogation room door. "So, you got our hacker?"

"I did. I'll probably want you in on this," he informs me, holding out the thin file in his hands for me to take. "You'll want to read this."

I take the file and flip it open, coming face-to-face with a picture of our mystery hacker: a young, doe-eyed woman with a mischievous shine in her eyes.

And as I read further down the page, I get my first glance at the hacker's name.

 _Skye._


End file.
